


What Remains

by thewhitestag



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitestag/pseuds/thewhitestag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter holidays are a time for reflection and thanksgiving. Damian finds himself having a miserable time with both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Remains

Damian touches down on a coffee shop rooftop in the shopping district. He and Batman have split up, each sweeping different sectors of the city; the scouting strategy is historically uncommon for the Dynamic Duo, but it’s become routine for this particular team-up. Damian doesn’t question the decision. It demonstrates a respect for his skills and, at least temporarily, assuages the awkwardness that lingers between them.

So far solo patrol has been quiet. It’s one of those nights, and Damian knows that if there’s action to be had, he’ll have to sit and wait for it to appear. He considers reporting his status, but his hand stops before reaching the comm-link in his ear. He’ll call Father when there’s something worth the interruption.

The rooftop is speckled with smog-tinged snow, but the spot comes closer to cozy than any other in the vicinity. And for only being three stories tall, it offers a remarkable vantage point. Most shops on this street have already closed, so the crowds are beginning to dissolve—perhaps he’ll see some proper burglary when the place is more deserted.

Another set of feet alight behind him onto the same rooftop. Damian can tell from the sound that this newcomer is nimble. Silence would not have been difficult; the small patter made against the ice and concrete is one of courtesy, the way one might clear his throat before entering an open door.

“Damian.”

“No real names in the field,  _Nightwing_ ,” he responds without turning.

Grayson pauses before letting out a lopsided chuckle, as though Damian’s sharp retort had been a joke, if only partly. And perhaps it had been.

Scattered notes of music rise up from the storefront below. The coffee house jazz creates an unremarkable, but comforting ambience. Jingle bells have replaced the usual percussion, occasional strains sounding almost like a carol, only to dissolve before you can put your finger on it.

A musk of coffee and cinnamon clings to the establishment like a second skin, soaked into the very bricks. Scents of pumpkin and apple and gingerbread have joined in, the aroma of seasonal pastries strategically fanned out into the street.

“Ah, capitalism with a touch of festiveness,” Grayson sighs, breathing the smells in deeply while looking down at the shoppers. His sardonicism is tempered with fondness.

Damian scans the groups moving along the sidewalks, couples and families and friends. Their paths immediately bend towards the coffee house upon first whiff, temporarily diverted if not completely suckered into entering the shop.

A time ago, Damian might have scoffed at the mindlessness of it. But while he still has some disdain, but he won’t pretend not to understand. He knows what it feels like when the past tugs on you with insistence; only that his version of Christmas is filled with the scents of roast lamb and pomegranates, chopped dried dates with honey and pistachios. But even if he can admit to that kind of nostalgia, these things also remind him of his mother. And that is enough to keep him from ever indulging.

Even outside of his upbringing, his first Christmas in America had been far from jolly, leaving him with nightmares of children’s bodies floating in dark, icy water. But it was also the same season that he had met Colin, so he supposes that can be something to hold on to. And of course, that was when he was in a different team.

He turns back to the present, eying his former mentor. The man has settled into a comfortable position on the ledge, still looking down at the shoppers. He comes to the task with a sense of carelessness—he’s not surveilling so much as people-watching.

“Is there a reason why you’ve come to interrupt my patrol, Nightwing?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he replies cheerfully. “Back for the Santa season. I’m in Gotham ‘til New Year’s.”

Damian crosses his arms, scowling. “Abandoned your city on a whim of holiday cheer?”

“Called in some favors—got a few friends to cover my turf for me while I’m gone.”

Damian raises an eyebrow.

“Gotta make up for last Christmas, right?” Grayson grins. The man had spent a good amount of the previous December chained up in the hull of a sunken Nazi U-boat, thanks to a villain with a penchant for antique war machinery. Damian is assaulted by the memory of transmissions going unanswered, a week of complete radio silence. Father’s heavy-handed worry. Another foul memory to tack onto the holiday.

In any case, he cannot deny that he has been waiting to see Grayson.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any,” he begins, rising to his feet. He brushes his tunic off primly before continuing. “There are certain matters which I’ve found necessary to address.”

Grayson raises an amused eyebrow, standing up as well, and Damian forces himself to swallow a preemptive insult before pressing on.

“When Father was gone…when you kept Gotham safe for him, you allowed me to be your Robin.” He resists throwing in a dig at Drake. “I was often insubordinate. Burdensome, even. I am…grateful for all that you have done.”

“What’s all this about?” Grayson asks.

“You performed well,” Damian answers, frowning at having to explain. “You deserve to be recompensed.”

“Payment for services rendered?” Grayson returns. But beneath the joke, Damian can sense an edge of resistance; perhaps the man’s misplaced sense of modesty.

“You had an obligation. To Gotham. To Father. And you wore the cowl well.”

Grayson is silent for some time before responding.

“Why now? It’s been two years…”

And Damian can’t help snapping back a little at that. “Yes, I realize this is later than decorum would have it. Would you like an apology, as well?”

“Robin,” Grayson says, tersely. Gruffly, even.

“Just let me show my gratitude, and this can be over.” Damian holds out his hand, but Grayson only stares at it with an unreadable expression. Damian rolls his eyes beneath his domino, because of course the man wouldn’t be satisfied with just a handshake. He waits for the saccharine comment that will surely come bubbling out of Grayson’s mouth, with perhaps an affectionate punch, or even an attempted embrace. But instead the lenses of Grayson’s domino narrow into slits.

“Batman has already thanked me. So if you’re doing this out of some misplaced sense of duty, don’t bother.”

Damian files the comment away. This is what happens when you try giving without being prompted. He lets his hand fall to his side, clenching it absently.

Down on the street a man laughs heartily, his howls grating against the mood above.

Grayson turns aside, exhaling through his teeth. “All this goddamn emotional constipation. Leave it to Bruce to—” He bites his tongue, but the words are out. And no amount of backpedaling will draw them back into silence.

Damian growls. “You have no room to critique. You said it yourself enough times, he’s the better Batman.”

The challenge puts some ugliness onto Grayson’s face. “Yes. And he’s cold, and angry, and doesn’t know a thing about raising a child.”

“He has his grief.” Damian steps back, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice. He hardly understands why the hell he’s on this side of the argument, or why there’s an argument at all. He knows with all honesty that he never intended to provoke the man. But he can still fight.

“So says the little assassin boy,” Grayson quips. “Suddenly such a high premium on life.”

“You have no right to talk about Father that way,” Damian warns, voice dropping. “And I don’t kill anyone, anymore.”

Grayson blinks as if recovering from a daze. His stance suddenly loses its aggression, fists relaxing to open palms.

“I didn’t mean…It’s just, before you were starting to—and now you seem so…”

He trails off, the thoughts fragmented and unfinished. Yet the unsaid words still echo in Damian’s ears.

“Look, can we not do this?” Grayson offers. “I wanted this to be a better Christmas.”

Damian wants to throttle the man for his condescension. Does he think he’s sparing his former partner’s  _feelings_?  It’s not as though Damian is unaware of his own deficiencies.

He knows that he is broken, it is obvious enough; his parents would want him more if it weren’t so. And maybe he had thought Grayson was the only one who accepted—

Well, Damian supposes it doesn’t matter.

Except his raised hackles refuse to settle, his throat growing even tighter.

“He’s my dad, too, you know,” Grayson adds.

“Okay.”

Grayson tries for a smile, shrugging.

“He’s got a clumsy way about family, is all I wanted to say.”

“Yes,” Damian answers, too evenly. “But you were the one who left.”

And Grayson looks just as surprised as Damian is bitter, and maybe Damian is also a little surprised himself. Because he’d already anticipated swiping away at whatever peace offering the man would extend, but he hadn’t expected to find this brand of poison on his claws.

This isn’t his first time seeing Grayson since he’d returned to his other identity; they’ve seen one another somewhat regularly for the past two years, even aside from the obligatory family outings to sate the press and shareholders. Yet the memory of his mentor leaving the mansion surfaces with unbidden clarity—the lush smell of the overwatered lawn, the patter of Alfred helping load the car.

He remembers Grayson’s outstretched hands. The sudden impulse. The torsion, and the pressure, and the pop of a joint. Shouting. And then, later, the x-ray of the idiot’s arm projected onto a screen in the cave. A faint hairline fracture had spiraled down the shaft of the radius, like wire twisting to enclose it. In the end, it had only kept his mentor in Gotham a few days longer.

Damian shakes off the past. It won’t add any fuel to his furor; he stopped being angry about this a long time ago. But it still hurts. Perhaps it will always hurt. And this man who is called his brother stares back at him with a wounded expression. Damian feels another growl rise to his throat.

“I won’t stand here waiting for you to enumerate all the ways I still need to be— _mended_ ,” Damian seethes. He is tired, and sick, heart sinking down to his stomach and leaving an ache inside. And he cannot help the way the line of his mouth crumples into a miserable glower. He lowers his head, chin to chest. “I was only trying to—”

The center of Grayson’s brow twitches upward, lips parting gently, palms turning slightly towards Damian, as if to ask,  _only trying to what?_

In a terse millisecond, Damian remembers that his actions have always been more eloquent than his words, remembers that this is something Grayson has always disliked, and realizes how perfect then it would be to just–

He jabs upwards for the larynx with his open hand, fingers flat and stiff like a blade. Grayson parries as expected, allowing Damian to clutch the older man’s elbow with an eagle claw. The boy hurls him down with an enraged bellow. But Grayson throws himself into the motion, using the inertia to flow his body into his counterattack.

Damian has just enough time to jump away, avoiding the arc of Grayson’s heel in a low spinning sweep kick. They shoot away from one another, leaving a good three yards of distance between them, and fall into an uneasy stalemate.

“Damian.”

“ _No real names in the field_ ,” he snarls.

Grayson hesitates. Nods to himself. Then his hand rises to his face.

The canned jazz downstairs has yielded to open mic night, and a woman with a guitar softly croons ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. The song arrives on the rooftop like a small bird’s feathers, floating up and up, and then gently settling down.

Grayson begins peeling away his domino.

“What are you—”

“Damian.” And steps closer, eyes unremittingly blue. The singer sustains a raspy, earthy note, stretching out the word ‘light’ into a double measure, before going silent and resetting the meter of the song to continue.

Chest heaving now, Damian stutters back half a step. “Are you simple, Grayson? This building is only three stories tall. If someone sees—”

Suddenly Grayson catches hold of his wrists. Even through their gauntlets, Damian can feel the warmth of Grayson’s hands. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he doesn’t think so. The corners of the older man’s mouth crinkle downward and the fingers squeeze lightly, which means Damian will have to suffer an apology. Flinching hard, he tries to break Grayson’s hold, but the man keeps tight.

Damian’s cape flaps with sudden motion; his boots slide almost frantically on the rooftop, slushing against the accumulated soot and ice. He shifts all his weight—Grayson’s eyes widen as though unbelieving,  _is Damian getting this big_ —to throw the other off-balance, to pin him down. But Grayson, ever the circus brat, regains his footing enough to respond. For once he overshoots.

Damian can sense the man’s sudden panic. It reminds him of a child he once saw at Colin’s orphanage, who had gotten a new pair of roller-skates for his birthday, had put them on before realizing he did not know how to use the brakes. The two careen back—away from the edge of the roof, but not necessarily out of harm’s way. Damian slams into the roof access door, his head snapping back against steel.

The Gotham skyline swirls like ink in his eyes. Grayson’s hands still circle his wrists and for a few moments of vertigo, Damian feels as though they are the only thing tethering him to Earth, keeping him from falling up into the stars. Two more chords finish out the end of the carol and a scatter of claps, snaps, and appreciative hums let the woman ease into the next song of her set.

When his vision settles, he tugs his arms back weakly. Grayson lets go, but still pins down his former partner with his gaze.

“Look, about before,” Grayson says, after a moment, “you were trying to do something nice. I get it,” It’s not a question. So why is he still making that goddamn face, like he’s tracing over an old wound?

“You don’t have to make it sound so…cold. Like you owe me something. For caring about you.”

Damian eases out a low, long, hissing exhale. Resignation, mottled with spots of annoyance. He watches the stream of his breath in the cold air, jetting forward until it hits the other’s chest and dissipates into wisps.

“It seems that you are…misunderstanding…who I am,” he begins, gingerly, keeping his glare trained on the Nightwing emblem in front of him until can finish. “You are expecting…skills that I…” He is still rummaging his mind for the right words when Grayson responds.

“I haven’t forgotten a thing about you,” he says, tilting his head in a gentle angle. “Where you come from. What you are and aren’t capable of.”

“Then why can’t you accept my gratitude?”

“I accept it! I do.” The reply comes so easily Damian thinks, maybe, that he can believe it. “But not because you owe it to me.”

“As I said before, Grayson.  _Insubordinate_.  _Burdensome_ ,” Damian explains with fatigue. “You deserve something for your endurance.”

Grayson furrows his brow. “I wish it weren’t so hard for you to believe that you might be wanted.”

Damian doesn’t know how to answer that, doesn’t even try. But his silence seems meaningful enough to the other man.

“You understand then. What you’re worth? To me?”

Damian nods curtly, a quick jerk of his chin cutting Grayson short before he can elaborate. He feels pooling heat at the back of his eyes and blinks harder to curb the sensation. There’s no need for the other man to go on.

Grayson hums lightly in assent, before adding, “I’m sorry I got angry.”

Something jars sharp in Damian’s chest. He clenches his jaw, exhaling deeply through his nose. Grayson chatters on, unrelenting.

“You make a great Robin. And a great little brother.” His face finally drips with that familiar sentimentalism and Damian leans away instinctively, in case Grayson does something idiotic like try to k-kiss him. Damian swallows, finding his words.

“I wanted you to stay. I wanted us to be Batman and Robin for at least a little longer.” It is a safe thing to admit; he has made the opinion very clear on several occasions already. But a feeling of nakedness sweeps across him when he says it, and the feeling intensifies when Grayson brightens at the words.

“I miss you, too.” Then, softly, a little bashful, “Sometimes, when I’m out on patrol, I zone out. You know those moments, when you just let instinct and habit take over? And I open my mouth to say something, but…I turn around and no one’s there.”

He has leaned in closer, almost conspiratorially. Lines of desperation overlay his eagerness, like a jackal dying in the shade of a tree, hoping it will wake up rested. And yet his eyes are so steady.

“Babbling,” Damian answers without thinking too hard. But his voice is thick. He brings the heel of his palm to his lips, a brusque motion to wipe away the weakness.

Grayson lets out an uneven chuckle and Damian feels his stomach unknotting, the sick in him lifting and dissolving.

“When you said those things, Damian. Wanted me to shake your hand, like you were just finishing up business…cutting me loose…” The gentle humor fades into something less certain.

“I just—” Grayson reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around Damian’s gauntlets again, slides his hands around so that Damian’s wrists are cradled in his palms. He offers the words with halting deliberation. “Don’t want you to be done with me.”

Downstairs, the Sugar Plum Fairy dances along the keys of an upright piano. The pianist has remarkable skill, the notes delicate and airy like falling snow, except they are rising instead. Damian wonders briefly, in the periphery of his consciousness, why this person is playing at some obscure coffee-shop open mic and not with an orchestra.

And then Grayson does kiss him. His lips brush high against Damian’s cheekbone, just below the corner of his left eye.

Damian lets out a scoff, except it sounds more like a sob, and he clamps his jaw shut before he humiliates himself any further. Grayson doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just doesn’t mind.

Damian’s pulse, alarmed, thrums hard through his body. It vibrates across his fingers and toes, prickling like the rub of velcro. The skin of his face feels raw and red and wind-bitten in the dark. The music continues on downstairs, though the spiced pumpkin and apple smells are not quite as strong as they were.

With caution, Damian peers into his heart. He does not know what to do with what he finds, but it is there nonetheless: small and fragile, unfurling.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite it being a Christmas fic, I actually wrote this at the end of summer in 2011, back when these type of fics were pretty much an entire genre within the fandom. Just had to get all my flangst out in the open before the Reboot finally split the team.


End file.
